


Djinns of the tomb, sons of the dead

by Askell



Series: Like a soul that a flame always follows [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arena, Biased Narrator, Desert, Gen, Jason Todd-centric, Lazarus Pit, Man from the Past AU, Mentions of Prostitution, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Sandstorm - Freeform, Suspense, Talia centric, Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, league of shadows, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-13 14:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: Talia accidentally discovers that one of Ra's former apprentices resisted the sands of time. Forcefully thrown in this new world he knows nothing of, Jason struggles to rebuild a life after centuries of slumber.(Part 1 of 4! Stay tuned for more to come!)





	1. The sarcophagus

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I would like to thank FTLight and LightningHope for months of beta-reading and brainstorming, as well as the JayTim Network and the Batfam Ship discord servers, you guys are the best!!!
> 
> There are three to four planned parts to this AU, each of roughly 8k to 10k words, divided in 3 to 5 chapters. (Basically 1 series -> 3-4 works -> 3-5 chapters) You're in for the long run my friends haha.
> 
> This first part will be gen, but the main pairing will be Jason and Damian. There will be absolutely no familial ties between them, and I lowered the age difference so don't worry about it being 'problematic'. I made especially sure it would not be like that. There will however be violence and sexual themes, which I did not tag in this chapter because they're not addressed here. 
> 
> Concerning canon and continuity, I based my interpretation of the League on Birth of the Demon (which is no longer completely canon but more interesting in my opinion), but this is definitely an alternative universe - no spoil though, you'll discover it yourself ;)
> 
> The title of the series comes from Victor Hugo's Les Djinns (translated in English), a beautiful poem I really like.
> 
> The next chapter will be published tomorrow~
> 
> As always comments, reviews and questions are welcomed!

Under the ruthless sun, there was nothing but arid land and desiccated bushes as far as the eye could see. Patchworks of orange dirt and deep red boulders under the azure skies painted the desert in all its glorious solitude. Eating up what was left of the horizon in great waves of darkness, a sandstorm was creeping closer and closer to the lone rider. 

Readjusting her shash, Talia cursed the heavy winds compromising her mission. The dust managed to invade the smallest gaps of the layers protecting her skin. Her spare horse lagged behind, exhausted by their long journey. The dig of her heel couldn’t have pushed the animals to gallop, no matter the threat of being interred by dancing sands. Dragging away from the elements was her only chance at salvation. 

The air boiled and twisted, creating puddles of oil where there was none. The vicious claws of thirst gripping at her throat were barely tolerable. Deciding to take a chance at the possibility of shelter, she turned to a small mountain on her right. The horse under her protested at the unexpected veer, but did not attempt to rebel. 

The brown Barb breed was as tough as it was hardy. Unfazed by local predators or occasional gunshot to drive them away. A good travel horse, but incomparable in grace or beauty to her own golden Akhal-Teke, left at the stables of the League. 

Being delayed was not part of the plan. Others had suffered Ra’s wrath for much less. Such inconvenience was, however, preferable to an incomplete mission. All of it for a dream, half a memory and the ego of an immortal. One warlord challenging Ra’s authority who had the presence of mind to ensure his own security. 

Her skills or expertise had nothing to do with her father’s choice of executioner. He could have sent any of his nameless men. The region was on the brink of implosion every other day, letting it to its own devices would have had about the same effect. Ra’s could have also ignored him and placed a bounty on the man's head. There were many ways to take care of the issue but only one reason why he specifically designated her to do it instead.

Talia was no fool. As it had always been the case, she was nothing but a demonstration of power. Had it been anyone else, they would have been given a jeep, for starters.

Dangling at the side of her saddle, a bag containing the severed head had long stopped dripping dark blood. Her main concern were the pests. In spite of the abundance of salt surrounding her prize, flies and other flesh-eating scarabs kept finding their way to it every time she rested Sweeping her UV lamp around at night had also highlighted the silent menace of scorpions. 

The crimson mountain was getting closer. Shadowed slashes in the rock indicated small crevices, more than what she asked for. However, indigenous predators tended to establish those as their territory, forcing her to climb to avoid their path. Friable, the ocre under her horse’s hooves imperiled her. Estimating the length of a sandstorm was nearly impossible with years of training, but hiding from it was always the best option. Even if it put her way behind schedule. There was no use having access to the Pit if no body could be retrieved. 

Near the top, a small crevice lead her to what most likely used to be a smuggler's hideout. The hollowed-out walls bore distinct marks of human occupation. Broken pots. Ghosts of candles. Cracking under her boot, small rodent bones. The low ceiling and slim entrance did not allow Talia to bring the horses inside. She had to un-saddle them and find another crease.

After making sure they were secured and fed, she went back to the cave. Remarkably cold compared to the boiling heat of the outside, the place was as unexpected as it was welcomed. As a reflex, she immediately scanned the area with her lamp. The hard stomp of her horses must have driven out any reptiles. Out of personal experience, she made no such assumptions before proper verifications. 

Outside, all light disappeared as a thick coat of flying sand covered the world. Whistling in-between the jagged stones, the wind produced eerily human-sounding whines. Talia ignored the uneasy feeling and kept searching for sleeping snakes. Each stone she moved revealed different layers of cobweb, but no signs of anything alive. Yet. Unmistakable, the shards of a human skull piqued her curiosity, and reminded her of the weight of the trophy at her hip. 

A flash of neon green had her drop the rock as if burned by it. It could have been a lizard. It could have been a deathstalker scorpion. Her youngest years remembered the excruciating sting, the hours of pain. Exhaling, she carefully crouched next to the stone and turned it over once again, slower this time. Lightning-quick, the strike impaled the insect on her blade.

Deathstalker indeed. She dropped it in an empty vial. One never knows when the need for potent poison arises. Now able to sit down safely, she undid her scarves. The fresh breeze on her damp neck felt like a blessing, after days of extreme temperatures. Combing her dark locks with her fingers, Talia gazed at the outside. Only a wall of shifting pale orange, occasionally broken by patches of blue sky. Nothing too intense, but she still set her camp there for the night. 

The first gulp of stale, lukewarm water tore an appreciative groan from her throat. Salty and queasy, her rations at least had the merit to settle the cramps tearing up her stomach. Talia was aware of the places in which her skin had burned in spite of her precautions, but preferred not to address the issue yet. If the sands miraculously dropped, the oils under the sun would only burn her more.

All communications were jammed by the electrostatic energy roaring outside. Only one message had reached her a few hours before. Damian, complaining about the length of her mission. His way to tell his mother he missed her. In the loneliness of the cave, Talia allowed a smile to graze her lips. At fifteen years old, he was nothing like the other al Ghuls. Ra’s despised his ‘rebellion’, whereas she observed it with growing curiosity. Sending her so far away was a first warning, the last one before punishment fell upon him. 

The daughter of the Demon was not supposed to be able to love. Intense training should have made sure of it. Whatever festered in her heart could certainly not be called that name. Yet, she had seen him grow and earn her pride. There was only one other person in the world who had managed to, so far.

Above the whines and whistles of the storm, a strange clicking sound caught her attention. Pressing her ear against the rock, she definitely heard something moving. Frowning, she listened more carefully. Hadn’t she known better, she would have thought it was mechanic. 

Under her fingers, Talia recognized some form of script, in a language she couldn’t read. Pursuing her examination, she found nothing more but strange markings in an alcove. The untrained eye could have believed it to be a simple graffiti, or old thieves' markings, but she recognized it.

Ra’s personal seal. Which only meant one thing. After verifying it was empty, she pressed the tip of her finger in the small round hole in the center. The sharp sting of a needle confirmed her thoughts. Her blood slowly opened the hidden door with a loud rumble. A wave of rotten air assaulted her senses, as a flight of darkened stairs opened before her. Laying abandoned on the ground, a headless corpse extended its crushed hand toward the door. Probably the owner of the fragmented skull. 

With one last glance at her camp, she ventured inside. Damp and moldy, the walls reeked of death and abandon. A mass of scurrying spiders raced back in the shadows with audible screeches, making her frown in disgust. 

A few deactivated traps later, Talia’s lamp revealed what was unmistakably one of her father's old laboratories. A plethora of copper alembics and ceramic jars were dispatched on the tables among heavy, rotten tomes. There was nothing left of the velum she could read, eaten by centuries of mites. 

Judging from the broken shards on the ground, scorched marks on the tables and exploded door in the dust, there had been an attack. A long time ago. Ra's had about as many enemies scattered across the world as he had bastards. Unsurprising.

Talia ran her fingers over the tables, her lamp cutting through the thick veil of darkness. She tried to find a proof of her discovery to bring back to the League's headquarters. Ra's tended to be in a better mood on such occasions, which profited everyone. Aside from rusty tools, dried-out mixtures and a large block of what resembled pink salt, she only found small, useless gold hinges. 

Scouting over the blackened equipment, slashed parchments and failed experiments, she heard the small click too late. Hadn't her arm been covered in thick layers of linen, the lance would have caught her skin. Instead, it deviated and pierced a worm-eaten bookshelf. A thick cloud of dust and splinters exploded in the narrow room. Face protected by her intact sleeve, she crouched to the ground.

She waited for things to settle before risking a peek at the lights filtering through the cloth. Half-expecting the walls to crumble upon her, Talia couldn't help but stare at the sarcophagus laid on the ground. The sleek, somber material was carved with a myriad of archaic glowing runes. Most of the light seemed to spill from a windowed opening, where the mortuary mask was supposed to go. There was no interpreting the bloody hand print as anything else, but what it was. Whoever rested inside hadn't been a willing participant. From the large gash were the lance had met the dark material, a fuming green liquid escaped in a steady stream. 

Theories fused in her mind. Ra's ‘alchemy’ had produced all sorts of dangerous matters throughout centuries of experimentations. Her senses seemed undisturbed by the proximity, which still didn't mean it was harmless. On the other hand, the lance's rusted point had broken its container, a fact which she didn't dare to draw hasty conclusions about. The smell, however, a mixture of brine and copper with hints of burned matches, reminded her of the boiling waters of the Lazarus Pit. 

Approaching closer, the scabbard of a scimitar ripped under her foot. The hilt was ruined, but she could still read her family name on the guard. A worthy souvenir, she decided placidly. 

Until the first bang echoed in front of her. 

Frozen in place, she waited for the second knock, louder this time. Something was moving inside the coffin. Talia readied her gun. Better not to take any risks with Ra's creatures. The lid moved a few centimeters to the side. Another series of bangs, accompanied by what strangely sounded like a death rattle. Except the thing was definitely alive and kicking. 

The lid crashed on the ground, splintering under its own weight. Talia released the air trapped in her lungs, placing her index on the trigger. The lights of the water were dimming, but the form still made her hesitate. Young, male, confused. He squinted at her with bewildered, electric green eyes. His words made no sense. Not because she didn't understand, but because no one was supposed to know them anymore. 

When he reached out, she shot millimeters away from his cheek. A fair warning.

_124\. Things that should soar in the sky_

__

__

_The laughter of a child. Prayers. Young falcons learning the ways of the wind. Crimson wings bringing one closer to the sun._


	2. Prisonner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all of those who supported me! Especially my beta readers FTLight and LightningHope.  
> Next chapter will be posted tomorrow~
> 
> Questions, reviews and impressions are always welcome

The last things he remembered were the pommel crushing the middle of his chest, in that crucial place the Head had showed him countless times. He had fallen backward, face first in the acidic waters. Hadn’t been able to find his footing fast enough to avoid being trapped there. Invading his mouth, nose, eyes, ears, lungs, the burning liquid had swept existence away from him in a matter of seconds. 

For the longest time, he had been as good as dead. There was no banquet of heroes to greet him at the side of the gods, nor the eternal cold embrace of Hel. No ancestors, no sacred lands, no dreams to shatter the numbness. Certainly none of the fire pits the priest had promised him his whole life. At the far back of his mind, Jason knew he had only been sleeping.

For the first time ever since, something touched his senses. Pain radiated from his left thigh. The searing powers of the water surged to regenerate the muscle. Trying to open his eyes, he jerked back when he realized he couldn’t breathe. Expectorating the scorching liquid in harsh convulsions, he felt his elbows and shoulders hit the limits of his prison. 

Panic seized him in flashes of white-hot fear piercing through his gut. His muscles did not respond like they used to, he lost all notion of high and low. He vaguely remembered the casket being laid on an altar. The laboratory was underground, it was horrifyingly easy to imagine the tons of crumbled rocks sealing him there. Or a cruel enemy welding his coffin shut for eternity. This sarcophagus would be his last, immortal resort. 

Flexing his arms to the point where it felt like his limbs were going to detach from his body, Jason hurled his rage and _pushed_. Something above him moved. He pushed harder. The excruciatingly slow slide of the lid reminded him of the stories his father told in his drunkest hours, of heroes punished with impossible tasks.

He was no hero. The lid fell down to the side, crashing in the deafening silence. 

Casting a haggard glance around him, Jason could only recognize the shape of musket in the blinding light of a lamp. In his confusion, words spewed out of his lips as a shiver ran up his spine. A world-shattering bang resonated. The bullet grazed his cheek before he could react. 

Had his muscles been in a better shape, his reflexes could have saved him. His current lethargy only allowed him to collapse to the ground. Shadows once again closed upon him. 

The next time Jason woke up was to the powerful smell of leather, horses and dirt. Familiar, reassuring scents. His bound wrists and ankles dangled toward the ground, the saddle digging hard in his empty stomach. Whoever draped him over their mount had had no care for his comfort. Aside from the rags he could feel tied around his waist, his concerningly pale skin was defenseless against the elements. 

Bright red patches already pulsed painfully over the thin lines of ink covering his arms. He did not dare to imagine the state of his back. Running his tongue over dry lips, Jason found out some part of his face had been bleeding profusely. His nose, if the tingling sensation indicated anything. 

He crooked his head to the side, trying to gather information on his captor. In his current state, all escape attempts would fail, or have him left to the mercy of the desert. Bound as he was, he needed to work out a plan first. Judging from the silhouette, he guessed the rider was a woman, but could not be entirely sure due to the flowing clothes. A slave hunter, perhaps. One that would take him back to the market and everything would be cleared. He hoped.

Feeling his head swimming again, the man did not fight the numbness which quickly overtook his mind. He was once or twice shaken awake to drink and eat, but quickly forgot those instances. Behind his eyes, vague memories danced. His parents. The streets. The fights. The branding. 

On what was probably the third day, Jason stared at the rising sun, laid on a small sleeping bag. The heat of a campfire on his left contrasted with the lingering cold of the night. He managed to rise on one elbow, only to find the woman observing him. Her long hair flowed in lazy locks down the tanned skin of her arms, hiding some of the muscles he could still see in the poor light. Unnaturally green, almost glowing, her eyes commanded his complete submission. One or two unfortunate stories he pleased to retell in the company of soldiers had him be extremely wary of his current situation. Beautiful, dangerous women had always been a weakness of his. 

“Hello?” he dared, cringing at the deep rasp of his damaged voice.

The woman kept staring at him with an unreadable expression, a large dagger in hand. Jason also noticed the dual blades crossed on her back, glinting in the dying embers. 

“Do you speak my language, my lady?” he inquired, repeating the question in the other two tongues he more or less knew.

Pit fighters tended to pick up whatever words were most useful for them, but he highly doubted insulting her virtue was the wisest move in his position. The restraints were the most elaborate he’s ever seen: thick, expensive metal bands. Too sturdy for a forge to break them. 

“I do speak this language.” The language of his master. 

Jason was not supposed to have learned it. Had he known, his master would have punished him for it. Yet, he was glad of his disobedience, as he was now able to negotiate his position. In his experience, it was better than nothing.

“Most people call me Jason,” he blurted, not missing the way her eyebrow rose at the rapid change of accent around his name. “I am a free man, working for the Alchemist of Thebes.”

“Does that Alchemist have a name, other than a title?”

“I only heard him using ‘The Head’ as an alias. He is an educated man who will pay a good fortune for my return.”

Untrue, but it would gain him enough time to figure out his decampment. The woman did not seem impressed or remotely interested, but it was difficult to read any emotion on her face. 

“When were you born?”

“In summer.” Then, “My lady.”

“What _year_ were you born?” she precised, sheathing the knife and preparing to go back on the road.

“I don’t know for sure my lady, my mother did not remember. Also do you always kidnap handsome men or am I your first?” he smirked, earning a nasty glare. “I could be of use to you with unbound hands, you know…”

Had he not expected to be thrown an item of some sort, the blade would have probably dug straight in his thigh. Instead, it merely cut the top of the skin. Hissing at the burning sensation, to add to the cut he had already earned on his cheek, Jason wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. For now. 

Instead, he accepted his fate to be thrown back on the horse with a strength he had never seen in any woman, and in only few men. Despite his young age, he was already tall and thick like his father's ancestors, built for long winters and hard work. Of his mother's, he only inherited dark hair. Yet, she picked his mass as if he had been a little child. Placed him across the saddle like a rolled rug. In the last two days of their journey through the endless, boring desert, Jason’s clever tongue gained him a new set of bruised ribs. His limbs were coated in itching sand. Trying to escape on a galloping horse may have not been his brightest idea so far.

From his uncomfortable perch, the young man noticed a change in the scenery. More plants, a jagged, mountainous terrain, some birds. Gliding high above head, a couple falcons seemed to follow their every movement. His kidnapper didn’t seem to mind, and greeted one of them on the way. Soon enough, they marched at the bottom of a canyon, through narrow passes which threatened to swat him behind the head at each turn. 

After a particularly challenging crevice, the woman stood in front of a plain wall, the deep end of it. The air was thankfully colder in there, but he knew snakes favored those places as well. Not a reassuring thought. She spoke a few words in a foreign language and the impossible happened. Red rays of light danced around them, as if controlled by someone. Jason had played with reflective surfaces as a child, yet failed to understand the mechanism behind what was happening.

A whole part of the wall detached itself from the rock and rose in the air. Metallic tubes moved with the structure, no visible hand to command such actions. 

“Lady, are you a goddess?” he couldn’t help to ask. One was never too sure.

She merely smirked in his direction before leading the convoy inside. 

Masked men immediately took care of the horses as she dismounted. A grimy bag of cloth in hand, she gave instructions around. _Servants_ , Jason thought. Or at least he guessed, not understanding a word of the eerily familiar tongue. The accent was close to his own, as well as some words. Only the lady seemed to speak his dialect, however, as the servants ignored his insults when they handled him. 

His feet were unbound, only to be replaced with a chain barely allowing him to walk. Jason certainly thought his eyes were going to gouge out of his skull. There were windows on the walls, except they were inside a mountain. Yet they displayed light… moving light. Images, text, and minuscule windows showing different places in different colors. One of the servants carried a rectangular panel with similar features. The young man was completely dumbfounded. He’d heard some legends, about the djinns and their mighty powers. 

His home land also spoke of a hidden people with magic abilities, or so he’s been told, having never witnessed its endless winters. His master sometimes sneered about them, albeit only when he was devising aloud how to better convince the local farmers to obey and fear him. Jason had always distantly believed in them, but witnessing their power was another thing entirely.

The lady led him by another chain bound to his wrists, like a slave. Hadn’t Jason already tried and failed to attack her, he might have been stupid enough to attempt anything. The constant pain radiating in his left flank, right shoulder and both knees was there to deter him. 

“What’s this place?”

“You can keep talking or you can keep your tongue attached to your body. Decide quickly.”

Gulping loudly for the sole sake of being annoying, the young man sent her his best unimpressed eyebrow raise. He did not, however, test her bluff further. They walked through bare corridors made of a sleek material Jason couldn’t identify. It looked like stone, but the amount of work necessary to make it appear like this… clenching his fists, he quickly glanced at the long tubes of light attached to the ceiling. Sorcery, or advanced sciences. Both seemed equally likely to him.

Soon, the corridors changed to a more familiar architecture of porous, pale yellow stone and colorful mosaic. Moucharabieh windows allowed him to peek at the fortress carved in the rock, arrow-slits and battlements like the scales of a dragon. Near the top of the structure, several slim towers reminded him of the deep blue minarets of his hometown. They were too many to have a religious function, he guessed they must have been falconries of some sort. 

Yanked forward by the chain, Jason abandoned his speculations to focus on the matter at hand. His wounds were not crippling, but he was most likely captive in the fortress of a powerful man. There was no way the luxury of colorful walls, art, chanting fountains and expensive cloth hanging from the ceiling belonged to less than a prince. Even the richest merchants of Venice could not afford such a palace. 

Hidden behind painted wooden panels and curtains of silk and gold, children excitedly whispered after him. Almost all of them had the same coppery skin as the lady, though he sometimes found darker shades, a blonde head or slant-eyes. And, of course mixed bloods like him, with pale eyes and olive skin, unclear lineage screaming his bastardy to the world. Avoiding their gazes, he straightened his back and kept walking. 

They crossed two richly decorated interior courts of deep green and glistening gold tiles, surprising two women drinking tea in the shade of a palm tree with gigantic dogs at their feet. Their enigmatic smiles and masculine attire did not reassure him in the slightest. Bruised, bloodied, he probably had that wary spark in his eyes most people considered dangerous. No wonder they all startled.

Jason guessed they must have passed the residential aisle when the decor became more simple, yet did not lose that aura of royalty and expensiveness. The huffs and grunts, bangs of wood against wood, of fists against flesh he heard echoed intimately with him. His bones sang with the desire to join the people whose shadows he could only see across the corridors in the training rooms, whose sweat tainted the air, whose battle cries resonated all around him.

As they walked through darker and simpler corridors, the woman notified him that all attempts to fight would be met with his inevitable end. That was the only warning he got before a burlap bag was placed on his head. He was allowed to yell exactly once, something blunt colliding with his stomach hard enough to make bile surge to his lips. When he didn’t rise up fast enough to their taste, a hand large enough to circle his biceps jerked him upright. Dragged along passively, he bit his tongue to keep the panic from taking over.

He stayed quiet. Waiting. Counting. Fifty-seven steps forward, thirty to the left, four to the right. A door. Twenty forward. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe in diagonal. The sharp metal dug in his wrists and ankles, distracting him from his task. At some point, in spite of his best efforts, he lost count. 

_Remember, kid. They might think they got you in shackles, in their best cell, with their best guards, but they don’t know one thing._

Jason cleared his mind with a sharp exhale. Made his limbs pliant, flexible. Opened his palms, stuck out his tongue. Had always felt things better that way. Four sets of heavy breaths, two more at regular intervals. No wind. Stagnating smells, illness, infection, mold and death. Underground? His gut churned painfully. 

_You- hahaha, in there. With them. Ooh gods be blessed. Poor them, with **you** in there._

Jaws aching from gritting his teeth too hard, he remained silent. The voice of his father kept echoing in his mind as he was roughly seated on a cold chair. Everything was cold. Definitely underground. His wrists were tied to an equally icy table, making him acutely aware of his vulnerability. No armor whatsoever, no weapons, no lockpicks. Barely a loincloth around his hips. As if it had stopped him before. 

The bag was torn off his head, leaving him blinking at the bright lights. A silhouette was sitting in front of him, bright green silk and gray hair. Waiting for his vision to clear up, Jason shook himself vigorously to distract them from his hands. 

“Well, well, well. My daughter promised me a surprise, and as always she delivered. Do you recognize me?” interrogated his captor in a suspiciously soft tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification, Jason refers to anyone over 15 as an adult (he has no concept of what being a teenager is). He is roughly 16 here.


	3. The Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kind comments and impressions, it really makes my day! Beta readers are as always FTLight and LightningHope~
> 
> Next chapter will be posted tomorrow, same time (1pm JEST time).
> 
> Comments, questions and impressions are as welcome as ever
> 
> PS: I keep editing the tags as I publish new chapters, don't forget to check them because it only gets more and more violent x)

There was no doubt on the identity of the man. His hair had grayed a bit, new wrinkles adorned the corners of his eyes, but he had not changed otherwise. The same aura of compassionate madness lit up his features, agitated these hands which manipulated elixirs and poisons with the same dexterity. The Alchemist of Thebes. The Physician of Constantinople. The Herborist of Lugdunum. The Head. 

“Thanks for the warm welcome master, I must say the room you prepared for me is simply exquisite,” Jason rasped, forcing a cocky smile on his lips.

“So it _is_ you… a miracle, some would say, but you know I do not believe in them. What is, pray tell, the secret of your youth?”

“A healthy amount of sleep, I guess.”

“Understand that your cooperation, while appreciated, is not necessary. Your preferential treatment is only due to respect for our common past. Now, apprentice, answer my questions or answer my executioner's.”

A shiver coursed on his skin, as if the temperature had dropped drastically. There was no trace of the previous softness in the Head’s voice. His hard eyes pierced holes in Jason’s skull. Only a few more seconds and the shard he had picked on the way would open his handcuffs. 

“The last thing I remember was the attack from Sahal’s men,” he began slowly, as if struggling to remember. “You set one of them on fire, which distracted me. Another got me behind the head and I fell in your- what did you call it again? Aquarium?”

“You fell in a pool of vile substances, poisons and toxins alike. Not only shouldn’t you have survived, but your body would have disintegrated in a matter of hours,” observed the older man, crossing his thin hands in front of him. 

Jason found himself thinking about his mother, who said physicians had the most enjoyable hands. Not only were they cleaner than most men’s, but their nails were short and blunt. Her sisters would laugh and say that all nice they were, they sure did not hold much money. His mother’s hands were plump and soft. 

He remembered holding her delicate fingers as they quivered in agony, skin whiter than the marbles of a palace, the dark green streaks of her veins pulsing weakly. 

He bit his tongue. Hard. 

“What is even more impressive is that you survived the exposure,” the Head continued, affecting vague disinterest. “See, the cuffs you’re trying to disarm are coated with a great number of diseases. As are the table you’re leaning on, the people who brought you here, the very air you breathe. Had you slept indeed, your organism simply couldn’t have adapted fast enough.”

“Then by the Gods use your alchemy on me! I don’t understand this any more than you do.”

“Do not compare your poor knowledge to hundreds of years of expertise. My daughter’s samples are being examined as we speak. Yet, _science_ doesn’t explain everything. The Pit’s waters are regenerative, yes, but not preservative. You are familiar with the story of Saint Lazarus, aren’t you?”

“If I have to listen to priesteries please put me back where you found me,” he groaned, rolling his eyes in a display of boldness he didn’t quite feel.

“Such a waste of potential,” muttered the Head as if to himself. “This conversation is getting nowhere, so allow me to be extremely clear. Join me by choice or by strength, but you will join me. In spite of the poor gifts you have when it comes to the domains of the mind, you can certainly realize on your own that you have nowhere else to go.”

“You found me breaking my shackles, I will break them again,” Jason snarled, lips curling backward to show his teeth.

“I am not offering you the position of a slave, Jason. This stronghold does not have any, but it does have prisoners. By choice, you can be on either side of the door, but quick. My patience is running thin with the insolence you cling on.”

His nails dug painfully in his palms. The situation was as unfair as life had ever been. Devising a plan under such circumstances, void of any information he desperately needed, was suicidal. Jason was as empty-handed as a wailing newborn.

“Why? What you want, you take, Head.”

The older man’s eyebrows rose slightly, but it was difficult to interpret the gesture. Uncrossing, then crossing his fingers again, he seemed to be contemplating his answer. Knowing him, he was either plotting a well-crafted lie or considering the truth itself. 

“The people of this land call me Ra’s al Ghul. And you are offered this opportunity out of gratitude. As my responsibility, your alleged death allowed my escape. A _long_ time ago.”

“How long was it, exactly?” 

“That remains to be determined. Should you willingly accept my offer, I can personally guarantee quick results from my medical team. If memory serves well, we could estimate it at five hundred years.”

Jason would have been relieved to recognize the number as a lie, a trick to manipulate him. Against that he had his own tactics. However, there was no denying what he had seen at the entrance of the fortress. Even the pure white spot of light overhead was either magic or science. Hadn’t he witnessed those miracles, the perfect manufacture of his shackles was proof enough to make him think twice before laughing at the idea.

“By the gods,” he swore in his father’s tongue.

In front of him, Ra’s perked up slightly at the curse, as if struck by an idea. 

-o-

Dragged along passively, Jason found himself staring at the most imposing doors of the stronghold so far. Emerald enamel gave life to an imposing reptile emerging from the ebony panels. He did not dare imagine the sheer amount of work and skill, nor the price of such an edifice. Ra’s pushed them open without as much as a simple look. 

On the other side, a circular room of gigantic proportions reminded him of the Roman edifices he grew up next to. Dark green banners hung from the walls, and the pit underneath them was covered in sand. Definitely an arena. 

Assembled in perfect silence on the bleachers, a crowd of men and women looked up to the balcony where he stood next to Ra’s and his daughter. It was too late to run.

“Should your gods decide to favor you and allow you to win this fight, you will become my heir,” explained the Head while signaling for his chains to be unbound. “This position will grant you the means and purpose to rebuild your life how you intend to. Should you lose, you will remain my apprentice and follow my orders. Or die, if _he_ decides so.”

Without further ado, he pushed Jason over the edge. 

In the deafening silence, the sound of his tired limbs landing on the sand resonated like a canon. The Head’s voice boomed shortly after in that language he couldn’t fathom. His name was said once. Drums started banging slowly, followed by the crowd’s heavy footsteps with increasing speed. Jason felt his heartbeat try to follow up, but only a bird could be that fast. 

Rising up as fast as his injuries allowed him, Jason looked around in the hopes of finding a weapon. Or even a large stone. Anything. 

There was only sand.

Rising his head toward the balcony, he tried to yell at his captors against the injustice. The drums covered his shouts. The lady, however, must have taken pity of him. In spite of the crowd’s disapproving howls, she threw him one of her curved daggers. Better than nothing. 

When the door on the opposite side of the arena opened on a dark corridor, silence fell again like a curtain. Jason’s breath accelerated. He remembered the panic, the anticipation. Gripped his blade harder. Whatever monster he would have to face, his father’s sneer murmured in his mind his mad hilarity.

_Show them, boy. Who would have known selling you to the pit would bring more money than your pretty ass? Ha! Who knew you’d be -burp- you’d be a worse whore than your fucking mother. If you lose, well. Same old. Bed ‘em, steal ‘em. Now go before I remind you of your fucking place._

A small silhouette emerged from the shadows. Their cape hid their traits, but their jaw was either a woman’s or a young man’s. What he focused on was the simple wooden staff they carried. The more they approached, the more evidently it appeared that his opponent was a child. 

With a swift movement, the kid removed his cape. A boy, no more than fourteen. Baby fat clung to his face, yet delicate bones hinted that he would be graced with beauty later in life. In the iced scorn of his deep blue eyes laid the authority of a king. What an arrogant prick. 

Exhaling the fear out of his lungs, Jason repositioned himself more properly. Armed hand up, unarmed one hovering close to his body. Strong back, protecting his left side. Gave the impression he was right-handed. 

Whether it was pity to set him up against someone his age, or another twisted strategy his former master was a connoisseur of, he couldn’t guess. Planting his staff in the ground, the kid spat what was probably a taunt in Jason’s direction. The crowd laughed. 

A blink. Pain blossomed in his arm. Broken. The blade flew away. A second blow propelled him backward. The hard wall against his shoulder blades chased all the air from his lungs. Stars danced behind his eyes. Digging in his flesh with the strength of a bull, the kid’s fingers blocked all air from him. Head swimming, Jason clawed at his wrist, ineffectively. 

One thing he knew since childhood is that strangling was a show. A slow death for the bloodthirsty public. 

He couldn’t die like that. Not defeated by a brat two heads shorter. Grasping the kid’s shoulders, he brought him closer with a smirk before kicking him in the nuts. Felt his breath on his cheek before he stumbled backward. To his honor, he didn’t even look pained, just surprised. And perhaps even more annoyed than before.

Falling to the ground before the second blow came, Jason felt small shards of stone fall on his head from the impact. Rolled to the side. Bad idea. It put too much pressure on the shattered bones, was barely more tolerable than a branding. Blinded by the tears, he got up and ran. 

Barely avoided the foot thrown his way. Couldn’t react fast enough to keep the heel from twisting his damaged elbow backward. Found the hilt of the dagger where he expected. Forced his lower body to arch, to kick the kidneys as much as he could. The greener the fighter, the less they protected their backs. The kid avoided it easily.

Bone-shattering punch to his shoulder. Splinting kick to his hip. Two vicious jabs at his wrists. An explosive uppercut to his jaw. The more pain flowed in his veins, the more his world shrunk. 

Rage fused through his exhausted limbs.

 _Berserker,_ cackled the drunken lump he called his father. _They- the gods, y'know, they have forgotten me. But- but you! Oh boy, your monstrosity will make me rich. Your whore of a mother, she may have been Loki in disguise for all I know!_

The priority was to get back up. Blood oozed from his head. Down his neck. Fire pulsed in his arm. Tore his shoulder apart. Couldn’t think well.

Bit the kid’s hand. Overwhelming taste of iron. Didn’t see anything but his eyes. 

Feral, a roar from the depths of his throat. Heart swelling with courage. The Allfather was watching. Didn’t feel the hits anymore. 

Stabbed a thigh. Showers of red. Blade in his gut. Slashed face with nails. 

The crack of the staff on his spine. Shards flying. 

Blow to temple. 

Darkness.


	4. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again everyone~ Beta readers are still LightningHope and FTLight.
> 
> Many of you were confused by Jason's origins, and rightfully since it will be further revealed later.
> 
> For better understanding though, his father is a descendent of Viking travellers in modern Eurasia. Since Jason is from the 16th century, the beginning of Renaissance, he can't be Viking himself and while it's not very likely most of the original culture has been remembered, his father may have kept some basic knowledge about it -such as religion (practiced in secret to avoid paying taxes though). However, Jason's mother is from some place in the former Ottoman empire, explaining why he has such a multicultural view of the world. But you'll discover more about that in part 2 and 3 (he's not Roman at all though, it's just that the Roman culture/architecture was still very present in that area at that time).
> 
> If you've still got questions I'll gladly answer them, as long as they're not spoilers though ;)
> 
> Also, there will onlt be four chapters because I realised that my former cuts would make two very short chapters at the end, and even though the points of view differ it's not really necessary to separate them.

No shackles bound his wrists. An improvement compared to every day of this nightmare he had happened to wake up in. The soft mattress under him, as well as the clean smell emanating from the sheets also ruled out dungeon cells. 

Caressing his bruised cheek, a lingering ray of sunlight forced his eyes open. The left eyelid was too inflamed to lift properly. Heavy bandages forced parts of his body into immobility, which may have been why the cuffs had been deemed unnecessary. The dullness of his limbs, their lack of responsiveness suggested drugs had been used on him.

Images of the fight jumped to his mind. Barely conscious at the time his gut was viciously lacerated, he forgot about it as he tried to rise up. A bony hand pressed him backward without much resistance on his part. He was so weak.

"Whether by luck or sheer rage, you managed to wound my beloved grandson. A feat not many can be proud of."

The gurgling sound which escaped from his throat was nowhere near intelligible, but it didn't seem to bother the Head. Clinging to the yellowed tips of his fingers, a faint scent of tobacco came to Jason's nose. The need to chew the bitter leaves clawed at the back of his mind like his own caged demon.

"Damian wishes to take your life for that very reason," Ra’s continued. "Be grateful that I forbade him to. Should you attempt to escape however, this interdiction will be lifted. From now on, you belong to the League and will be taught its ways. Should you manage to prove yourself useful to its activities, it is entirely possible to climb its hierarchy. As it is possible for troublemakers to hang from its walls. Consider it a fair warning.”

Something vulgar ghosted around Jason’s lips, too faint to be heard but he trusted his valid eye to convey the feeling. 

It took him a week to be able to leave his bead without help. Seven days of mute nurses, questions uttered in foreign tongues from a pack of doctors, and liquid meals. The humiliation of needing help to take a single piss only piled up on his frustration of having been beaten. No, destroyed. It had been an entirely one-sided combat, his few strikes due to chance more than anything else. 

He did not understand this era. They believed healing required all sorts of tubes planted in his skin. Their gloves scared him. The texture felt like dried cat guts, clinging to their hands like a second skin. The other people he had seen so far wore more or less normal clothes (aside from those impossibly tight pants worn by both genders), but the doctors looked like something public tellers would warn you about. 

The first time one of them had placed an icy cold disk to his chest, Jason had punched her in the face. As if the piece of metal buried in his elbow didn’t scare him enough. Then, finally independent from all of those scary equipments, he had been aggressed by the bathroom. 

Fumbling with the buttons had been a mistake. 

There was a blue one and a red one in a small squared room with two glass walls. He had been curious. Who would have expected boiling water to fall on their head at first try. Certainly not him. Yelling, he had tried to escape it but only managed to slip and land on his butt. Bracing himself against the burning rain, he had kicked the glass to get out. Another mistake, as it shattered in millions of shards to the ground. Two long pieces already buried in his foot, he had climbed on the bidet waiting for someone to come to his rescue. 

The nurse had looked absolutely horrified when he had finally opened the door. Aside from the glass, blood and water, Jason’s cast was ruined and had needed to be done a second time. 

With a bit of tweaking and experimenting, he was however proud to say he had found a way to defeat the bathroom. As much as he hated his current predicament, having clean water at will was definitely something he appreciated. 

In the confines of his room, he had prayed at night. To his mother’s god, even if she never really believed. It was all about avoiding taxes. To his father’s gods, whose presence felt too human to ignore. To whoever listened, really. Caressing the blue eye bead at his wrist, he wondered if anyone would see him cry. 

Jason’s first confrontation with a mirror had been a humbling experience. He had heard of Venetian glass-masters who managed to produce miracles of reflection, but this was something else entirely. He had jumped back upon seeing that skeletal man, the dirty knots in his beard, the large patch of greenish skin around his eye. In fact, if not for the ink curling around his ear, he may have never recognized himself.

He touched the peeling skin of his cheek as if it was going to dissolve, mesmerized as the reflection mirrored his movements. Where the water of the cistern back home had sent him the image of a healthy, bulky young man, the cruel sheet of glass showed him bones and damage. The most shocking thing were his eyes, glowing in the semi-darkness in a way only stories talked about. The same glow both Talia and Ra’s harbored. 

Something dark and violent twisted his chest. It tore through his lungs, leaving him gripping the edge of the sink, breathless. A gasp of agony fought its way through the flames in his throat, only to sound no louder than a sigh. His knees hit the tiled floor. He felt his own nails claw at what was, but couldn’t be, his skin. Long spasm rattled his bones, pushed his torso upward in the hopes to fill it with air. Acidic tears streamed down his cheek. Seeing them bright green, Jason finally managed to scream.

-o-

Arms crossed over her chest, Talia gave the screens a bored glance. The room may have benefited from the all the modern climate controls, the dry air still made her throat feel like sandpaper. Once again the air conditioning was too cold compared to the exterior, a necessity for computers but a bother for human beings. Silent and focused, twenty people monitored about twice as many screens for every sorts of activity both in and outside. 

“Looks like he’s having a panic attack again, milady,” pointlessly observed one of the supervisors, sounding as uninterested as she was. “Should we send someone this time?”

“If he’s strong he’ll get up.”

The man shrugged without even looking up from his screen. The boy's thin frame shivered violently, bright lime steams rolling down his cheeks. It only confirmed Ra's early diagnosis of Pit poisoning. Had she been able of pity Jason would have had hers. 

“Yeah, what I thought. Also, your son has disappeared from our screens, my Lady.”

She sighed, more out of habit than frustration. 

“Well, send three men looking for him, as usual.”

“As usual,” the man repeated, unfazed. “Halima has probably told you already, but in case she didn’t, her last report mentioned cat hair on his boot.”

“How many of his pets will I have to kill before he understands,” she muttered, gritting her teeth.

“Had the same problem with my daughter,” another supervisor intervened in a bland voice. “Can you believe she put a leash on a gecko? _Children_.”

Several other supervisors scoffed, eyes fixed in front of them. Khafiin was one of their least martial fortresses, providing a haven for refugees of the war shaking up the region, as long as they proved useful. Birthing the new generations of assassins, running the administration and logistics, supervising their territory, those people were necessary. But expendable. 

As long as Damian understood this and didn’t try to get attached the way he did with those animals, she could always find excuses not to move him away. He may have survived worse than most people could have in a dozen lifetimes, he was not yet ready to go to where Ra’s wanted him to. Damian was still a child. 

“Milady,” intervened a young woman in a timid voice. “I have some strange readings, maybe I’m mistaken, I don’t-”

“Show me,” she interrupted.

Bowing her veiled head, the woman moved to the side to allow Talia to look at her screen. At first, she didn’t see what had startled the supervisor. Movement, heat, infrared and magnetic sensors displayed normal readings. She was ready to scold the woman when she noticed how _normal_ the values were. Which, in itself, was nothing unheard of. Yet, the stillness was unsettling. Talia felt the silence grow heavy behind her hunched shoulders. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity -one full minute, according to the monitors- the numbers shifted drastically. A quick glance to the cameras revealed a lizard had just crossed their field of surveillance. 

“Good call, but there is nothing to be concerned about,” Talia said, returning to her post. “Should any fool attempt to attack the fortress, they would be dead before they even realized it.”

There were in fact very few people would could theoretically pretend to be able to cross the first ring of protection. The only person she had estimated could penetrate their deep walls had been taken care of. And, well, if the few others who had a chance at seeing their walls in person proved capable to do so, there was always a price no one could refuse. 

With a last look at Jason’s shaking form on the floor, Talia got up. She had a son to reprimand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the official end of part 1! Part 2 is still being written/edited so I can't really give you guys a date but stay tuned to this series for the beginning of Jason and Damian's relationship ;)
> 
> I can already tell you it will be rivals to friends to lovers, without too much spoilers. The next chapters to come will further explore relationships between characters, but also the culture of the League itself based on my personal headcanons (because DC can't have a continuity so I do what I want muwhaha). 
> 
> I'll try to finish writing it as fast as possible, in the meanwhile don't hesitate to share your impressions and theories! If you have some headcanons don't hesitate, I never have enough of them. 
> 
> See you in hopefully not too long~


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